


Sticky, Smooth, Solid

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Ship + prompt answers [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Drunk Sex, F/M, Hand Jobs, Lingerie, Suicidal Thoughts, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4815932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a sweltering early fall in Brooklyn. Steve is just getting by, trying to adjust to civilian life after being discharged from the Army. Neither he nor Peggy is pleased with the current state of affairs regarding his treatment by the SSR or in popular media and the heat only makes the tension more tense. The pair tries in earnest to stay positive, but sometimes jokes just aren't enough. After teasing Peggy about crooked stockings, Steve decides to take up the challenge she issues in jest and his evening gets considerably better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticky, Smooth, Solid

**Author's Note:**

> An answer to the prompt "Steggy + Lingerie" from [slowitdownbaby](http://slowitdownbaby.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.  
> Special thanks to [missgnutmeg](http://missgnutmeg.tumblr.com/) for listening to me rant and flail like an anxious Kermit the Frog with a dildo in either hand.
> 
> A Note on Chronology: This story falls during the Agent Carter timeline in which everything is the same except that Steve survived. Dooley is alive, Dottie is here but has not been discovered or isn't actively working her mission in regards to Peggy quite yet. Tweaked slightly to make the whole thing fall during, well, Fall. Where, like now, the weather is disgusting and must be stopped.
> 
> A Note on Kink (kind of): As I've mentioned on the blog, Peggy's not the one in the lingerie in this story.
> 
>  **TRIGGER WARNING:** Suicidal thoughts.

It was hotter than hell. The fall had decided it wanted to be the summer instead. The air was humid and heavy and solid.

Work was slow. The advertising firm had let him go, they already had an artist on staff; there was more interest in text and photos than illustrations. He had an old classmate who’d promised to make some inquires where he worked at the Coca-Cola Company weeks ago and hadn’t gotten back to him yet. He was relying on what little steady comic work he could pull in to pay the rent. At least he was getting by. He wasn’t scraping together pennies our digging through the couch or skipping meals.

But it still didn’t feel that wonderful to not be able to take Peggy out as often as he wanted, to indulge just a little on dates—beef instead of chicken, dinner and dancing instead of one or the other—to have to walk by that watercolor set and the new nibs for his pens.

He’d wondered briefly if he should throw his hat into the pin-up game. Calendars could be easy. Bunny ears, Santa hats. He’d painted one on a Marauder once while he and the boys were on mandatory R&R somewhere near the Swiss border. The WASP who flew it handed him a picture of her girl back home and insisted he paint her as bright as he could manage— _Make ‘er smile blind ‘em, Cap._ She’d slapped him on the shoulder and grinned at him over the brim of her tin cup full of coffee that looked more like mud. There could be money to be had there, in pin-ups. And it would be a perfectly legitimate excuse to buy those watercolors after all.

He’d finished penciling the last panels of the newest _Captain America’s Daring Adventures._ Steve grit his teeth the whole way through the process. _Timely_ had gotten the bright idea to adapt _Adventure Hour_ into a book. The stories were even more ridiculous than the radio program. He spent hour after tedious hour making illustrations for scripts that numbed his brain about characters that frankly didn’t resemble himself or Peggy or Bucky or any of the Commandos in the least. Even the version of Captain America that he played on the bond tour wasn’t quite this much of a caricature.

The worst part, of course, was that no one _knew._

No one _could_ know.

It was universally agreed that both for his own safety—the SSR was well aware that Hydra was still a threat, Erskine’s work was still sought after—and to maintain the living myth of Captain America, no one could know that Steve and the Captain were one in the same. The Captain couldn’t be a kid from Brooklyn _and_ a star-spangled hero who’d socked old Adolph on the jaw.

Some days he wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

Especially when he ran into people he knew from before the war, who accepted “I joined the Army” as a suitable answer to the question “Weren’t you smaller?”

He refused to believe people were that willing to accept what they were given at face value.

He wanted to tell his story.

Bucky’s story.

Peggy’s.

The Howling Commandos’.

But by order of the SSR and the Department of War—all the way up to Marshall and Stimson and Patterson—his lips were sealed.

So he spent his days sketching out mindless stories. Drawing Betty Carver with an ever-diminishing waistline, and an increasingly helpless expression. Painting himself into more and more a starring role and his brothers in arms into the background.

He’d submitted a script, he sure had.

They’d laughed and told him “no.” It wasn’t what the people wanted. It wasn’t what they needed.

Just draw the hero. The icon. The legend. The loveable beefcake from the radio show.

So he finished the panels. He tucked them into his portfolio and shoved the folder aside, not wanting to see them until he had to turn them in on Monday.

When he turned them in, he’d quit.

Steve leaned back in his chair, balancing on the two back legs and unsticking his thighs from the lacquered wooden seat. He crossed his arms over his bare, sticky chest and squared his jaw defiantly.

He was going to quit.

As soon as he found a new job. He’d do it.

“Darling, you are going to dash your head against the floor.” Peggy appeared in the doorway of his bedroom, hair pinned up and half dressed, her purple dress pooled down around her waist, fastening the screw-back of her earring. He turned his attention toward her and squinted, daring her to stop him as he leaned back just a fraction more. “I’m going to laugh and say I told you so.” Steve’s eyes went wide with panic for a second, his arms whipping out to balance himself. Peggy snorted and fastened her other earring in place. “Always so dramatic!”

Steve scrubbed his hands over his face, grimacing at the salty sting of sweat clinging to his lashes. He stretched his arms high over his head, conscious of the way Peggy glanced appreciatively at the muscle hugging his ribs. “Would y’have me any other way?”

“Absolutely not.”

Steve groaned at the hot, solid weight of her when she plunked down across his legs. “Was yer first thought af’ta that nice long bath, _good golly gosh_ let’s see how disgustingly warm I’kin get again?”

“Mmm, perhaps.” She pecked his cheek, a sly smile stretched across her bare lips. “Tell me, darling, do you sit in your skivvies in the office as well?” Steve laughed. “You’ve finished? Can I see it?”

“They’re awful, Peg.”

“Truly?”

“Honestly.” He reached around her to thumb open the clasp on the portfolio and pull it toward them. Peggy opened the folder over her crossed legs, the spine perched atop her bent knee. She turned each page over carefully, mindful of smudging the pencil or bending the edges of the paper. “See?”

“He looks nothing like you.”

“I drew myself first time they offered me this book. Got sent back t’the draw’rin board. They said Cap hadda have a nice strong jaw.” He’d just wanted to see if they’d notice.

Steve realized later on that the face had wound up looking far more slender, more smooth and narrow.

The way he’d been before.

“Hmm.” She leaned back to examine him. “Yes, I see. Yours is terribly weak.” She cringed at a panel featuring Betty Carver wandering around with amnesia, Captain America looking on from a distance with a solemn expression. “I still can’t decide whether this is all funny or sad. Captain America illustrating a comic book about himself.”

Steve shook his head and thrust the closed portfolio back onto the table. “It’s not really about me. Just a character.”

Peggy scrunched her face in a sympathetic expression, caressing his clammy cheek tenderly. “My poor darling, forced to stay in the shadows.” She settled her hands on his shoulders, squeezing affectionately. “I hate it as much as you do.”

Steve smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. He stared blindly down at the jut of her collarbones, his hands settling high on her waist. The fabric of her waistlette was smooth and firm under his fingers and palms, warmed by her body, held taut by the expansion of her torso with each breath.

“I don’ mind the shadows. I didn’t do it ta get… ta become…”

“The Star Spangled Man with a Plan.”

He nodded. There was the slightest bit of pilling to the fabric of the waistlette just below her arm, friction from constant movement damaging the cheap rayon fabric. He slipped his middle finger beneath the strap, sandwiching his index finger on top. He moved his fingers slowly up from the swell of her chest and over the curve of her shoulder—strong shoulders that supported weapons and helped carry men and supported him when he felt like he was failing. She drew in a deep breath, filling her chest and belly with it. She hooked her fingers into his hair when he leaned forward to press his lips to her skin, increasingly sticky with the humidity of the room, her bosom just a little too full for the brassiere—a few lovely pounds all around in the presence of regular full meals and the absence of days and days on one’s feet—it looked good on her.

He tilted his head up, lips catching at the vulnerable flesh under Peggy’s chin. “I don’t need all that. I just wanna be able to… I dunno. Talk about what we did.”

Steve had been surprised when the Army had discharged him without too much of a fight. He suspected that Peggy and Phillips had something to do with it but was too afraid they’d revoke the ruling if he asked too many questions.

“You could come back to the SSR, train to be an agent.” She sighed, a happy sound, when he ran the tip of his tongue up over the outer edge of her ear.

“Not my world.” He pulled back, bottom lip sucked into his mouth, eyes sweeping over her heat-flushed face and throat. “I’m not cut out fer what you do. The und’ah cover missions and investigatin’. I’m too impatient.”

Peggy chuckled, “You could go back out in the field. Back out with Dugan and Jim. Every time they check in they ask after you. They want you.”

Steve looked past her, eyes falling unfocused on the bedroom door. “I dunno. I dunno if I could survive out there.”

He flushed with embarrassed heat. He was afraid to go back. He didn’t think he’d hesitate, not if they really needed him out there. But he was afraid all the same. He didn’t feel like the same person who went to the fair that night. He didn’t feel like the same person who jumped out of a plane in the middle of enemy territory. He didn’t feel like the same person who’d watched his brother fall from a train or had disabled the engine of the Valkyrie and prayed that he’d survive the collision with the mountainside, that he wouldn’t freeze or be crushed inside the wreckage before Peggy could find him. But then, maybe that’s what he was meant for.

“I never wanted’a go ta war, I just… I wanted’a do what was right. And then… it was over and I was glad it was over. Meant I could go home, figure out how I was suppose’ta keep goin’ when… when so much was different.” His eyes stung and watered. He blinked rapidly, tears making his eyelashes clump together in the effort to keep them from falling. “If I go back… when’s it gonna end?”

Peggy looked upset and unsure, “Darling, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”

Steve swallowed hard and smiled. Who was he to be that way? He wasn’t the only person who’d lost someone, the only person who’d seen and done terrible things in the name of their cause. How many friends, how many brothers and sisters had Peggy lost? She was in it far longer than he’d been. He shook his head. “It’s nothin’, not yer fault. I’ve been in a damned funk all day. It’s this _heat._ ”

She pecked a light kiss against his nose and peeled herself away from him. “Well then, I am certainly not helping the situation. Will you do me up?” She looked over her shoulder at him while she eased her dress up from around her hips and slipped her arms through the sleeves. She watched him carefully, concern evident in the creases at the corners of her eyes.

“’Course.” He started at the nape of her neck, popping each small, round button through its corresponding loop methodically, watching the bright white of the longline bra and the bright peachy color of her skin disappear behind the dress.

“I completely forgot I haven’t got a pair of shields here.” She walked back into the bedroom and hoisted herself up atop the steamer trunk at the foot of Steve’s bed, pulling up the hem of her dress to show off the backs of her legs. “I don’t think I can tolerate my thighs rubbing together all sweaty this way but I’m not entirely sure stockings are the lesser of the evils. Am I crooked?” She craned her neck to look back and down at her legs. “They kept sticking.”

Steve held back a laugh. “Little bit.” The seam down the back of her left leg looked as though she’d drawn it on drunkenly. He teased gently, wondering if she hadn’t quite slept their previous evening off.

“ _You_ try getting into a pair of stockings. It’s harder than it looks to keep them straight.” She squinted down at him with an amused expression briefly before she huffed out in annoyance and swiped at her forehead with her arm. “I swear, it doesn’t even feel as though that fan is on.” She gestured forcefully at the fan on the dresser, whirring away uselessly. Steve carefully unclipped the garter straps from the top of the offending stocking and rolled it down then carefully back up, making sure the seam was as straight as possible. Peggy turned and put her hands on his shoulders for help down from the top of the trunk. “Thank you, darling.”

“You sure ya have’ta go t’night?” He followed her back out through the living room and knelt to retrieve her shoes from under the couch.

“I do.” She frowned. “I don’t really want to. But apparently, Dooley’s royal counterpart will be in attendance. He thinks having me there will help. Really,” She wiggled her foot side to side to get it down into the shoe and then put her foot up on the edge of the couch beside Steve to fasten the buckle. “Really I think I’m just going to babysit Howard. Make sure he doesn’t get too drunk or say anything too terribly offensive.”

“Why does he get invited to these things? Everybody knows he’s just gonna get bored and cause trouble.” Steve said it with a wry smile on his face, running his fingers over the smooth silk covering Peggy’s ankle before she put her foot down and did up the other shoe.

“Because he builds their toys.” She looked down at him, fondly running her fingers through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it back like it was full of pomade. “It’s an early dinner at the very least. Hopefully I can escape at a decent hour.” He breathed in the heady scent of her, salt and bright flowery perfume and clean soap from the bath, when she leaned down to press her lips to his forehead. “Forget about the comic. It’s finished until the next script comes in.”

“A nap sounds good right about now. Only thing makes any sense in this weather.”

“Good,” she smirked, “Then you’ll be well rested for me. I intend to keep you up all night.”

“Again?”

“Mhm.” She waggled her eyebrows and slipped out the door.

Steve sat for several moments staring down at the floor, his eyes becoming unfocused as he zeroed in on the grain of the wood and his head buzzing with anxious static. He shook himself and stretched out on the couch, his feet dangling over the armrest. He tried to settle in, listening to the tick of the clock in the kitchen as it echoed through the small apartment, counting off ten—twenty—thirty minutes, but only found the weight of the day’s humidity and the stagnant air pressing down on him. He let out a frustrated growl and threw his arm up over his head. His fingers caught in the pocket of his good summer dress shirt, carelessly snagged over the back of the couch from the night previous.

He licked his lips, thinking back to how the shirt had gotten there in the first place. They’d planned to go out dancing, never quite making it to the club, deciding instead to make the most of the surprisingly cool evening and heading down to the beach at Coney. Somewhere along the way they’d acquired a bottle of Schnapps, carefully tucked into Peggy’s bag. The peach-flavored liquor and crisp, salty air worked to release the tension in his shoulders as they sat on the sand, bare feet _just_ far enough down the waterline to be washed over with the foamy ends of the waves as they rocked in and out.

Peggy had polished off more of the Schnapps than she probably should have, teetering on the edge of pleasantly lubricated, keeping pace with Steve in sips and swigs as they passed the bottle between them and stared out at the reflections of the stars and bright face of the moon on the dark water. She’d erupted into a fit of laughter when he mentioned his thoughts on calendar girls, joking that he hoped she didn’t mind if all his paintings wound up looking like her.

“Only if you personally sign a copy for Jack. I shall put it in his Christmas stocking!” Her eyes went wide in surprise at herself and she passed the bottle back to Steve. “I think I may have had enough.” She leaned back, palms in the sand and profile illuminated by the silvery light when she tipped her head back. “I think tonight has been much more pleasant than what we’d planned.” She closed her eyes, a soft smile creeping across her lips. “I like this. Winging it.”

They sat for a while longer, until Peggy said she was getting cold.

“Ya want me’da take y’home?”

“Mmm. Your home. Fry’ll have my head, it’s far past curfew.”

“Grown woman, a government agent. With a curfew.” His grin earned him a sharp knuckle to the shoulder.

“I'll take it with stride—the rent is worth the trouble. And Angie and Dottie will back me up, say I called home about picking up some extra shifts with the telephone company.”

“Alright then. My home.” He stood and brushed the sand from the seat of his pants and helped Peggy to her feet to walk up toward the boardwalk and put their shoes back on. She was quiet on the train, her head resting against his shoulder, molding herself beneath the arm wrapped around her against his side. He’d let her have the bed and crash on the couch, knowing she wouldn’t be pleased with his _octopus limbs_ , as she called them, if she woke up hung-over.

They never made it to the bedroom.

Peggy’s mouth tasted sugary and sharp and her lipstick made dramatic smears across his chin and jaw when she wrapped herself around him, giving him no choice but to hold her up. Clothing came off carelessly—light cotton dress, slacks and suspenders, shoes, shorts and panties, shirt—all left where they fell, tossed and dropped as they moved from the door through the dark living room and fell down onto the couch.

Her hips rolled back and forth, grinding her sex down against his thigh and making her shudder, her knee effectively kneading his testicles. He could feel the heat radiating from the flush of her skin when she pressed herself close and gripped his cock, stroking roughly, getting him hard quickly.

“Peg,” he breathed, “Peg I don’t—I haven’t got—“

“Don’t need it.”

She squeezed, the curve of her pinky against his pelvis, fingers wrapped close to the base of his shaft. His stomach flipped, the pressure pleasant and uncomfortable at the same time, pulling him back from an edge he hadn’t realized he was on. Peggy rose up on her knees, breathing deep and pushing her bosom closer to his face. He kissed the swell of her breast, running his tongue between them, holding on to the straps of the waistlette she was still wearing. She shivered and sighed, moving one hand gently away from her shoulder, sweeping his with hers down over her chest and belly, moving his fingers through the thick curls between her legs—the slickness there much warmer and wetter than the cooling arousal against his thigh.

“Two,” she whispered, mouthing sloppy kisses against his temple. Her breath caught when he sank wet fingers inside, crooking them forward. She eased herself back down, trapping his hand between her body and his. Hips jerked, her mouth going round, her breath humid against his cheek and ear. “Yes, there!” He pressed his palm up, disregarding the awkward turn his wrist in their position, giving her something to gain friction against as she fucked herself on his fingers.

The hand around his cock disappeared, her palm offered up to him in the darkness with a quiet request for _tongue_. Heat rose in his cheeks. Steve never wanted to get used to the way Peggy was just a _little_ dirty, when she was just a _little_ drunk—he savored that surprise, the way it made him just a _little_ hotter for her. He kissed her palm, warm and moist and smelling like his own arousal, before he laved his tongue over it and sucked on each finger in turn. Peggy let out a breathless laugh and buried her face in the crook of his neck before taking him in hand once more and beginning to stroke him in time with the movement of her hips, her wicked thumb running back and forth over his slit with each forward jerk.

Steve groaned and sat up, the skin of his back irritated by the imprint of the fabric of the couch cushions. He rubbed his face roughly and looked around the room. He supposed if he couldn’t make himself relax, he could make himself be productive. He stood, scooping Peggy’s dress and his slacks off the floor and his shirt off the back of the couch to drape over his shoulder. He shoved his feet into his shoes and moved into the bedroom to shake out the wrinkles and hang the clothing back in the closet. He kicked the shoes off just inside the closet door as he ran his hands over the draped fabric of his own slacks and shirts, moving from the uniform textures of menswear to the smooth, comforting textures of Peggy’s clothes. The cotton dress he’d just hung, the buttery soft suit pants and silky blouse—just a few things for the occasions that found her staying the night or stopping by between engagements. The top drawer of his dresser was divided neatly between folded pairs of his own shorts and socks and a handful of Peggy’s underthings. He smiled, comforted by the thought of her commandeering space within his space, when he glanced at the glass dish holding a smattering of cosmetics on the dresser’s top beside a photograph of the pair of them on the ship that bore them home from War.

Steve moved listlessly around the bedroom trying to find a spot to place his fan that might actually make the bed comfortable and not finding one, wondering if his landlady below might have an extra fan to spare in case Peggy stayed the night again, he didn’t think it was going to get any cooler after sunset. He made his way into the bathroom to fill the tub with the coolest water he thought he could tolerate. After peeling his shorts off, he sank gingerly into the cold bath and eased himself back against the tub.

The neighborhood had grown quiet and still in the late afternoon, the hustle-bustle of people on the sidewalk returning from school or work and the rumble of taxis deadened by the muggy weather. Steve struggled to find a comfortable position in the tub, really too tall to sit in it and stretch out to relax. He finally settled on straightening his legs out and letting his feet and calves stick up into the air to maximize the amount of space available to submerge his overly-warm core in the water.

He mused briefly at how many other people on his block were doing the same thing. Ladies turned into wilted flowers in their summer dresses and slacks, men sweating through even their fashionable light-weight suits. He sank further down into the water, letting the surface ripple along his jaw and scooting further toward the opposite end of the tub, more of his legs hanging out. He imagined his body cooling by fractions of a degree at a time, his heart slowing to a crawl, his mind quieting. He gripped the edges of the tub tight, easing himself completely beneath the surface.

It reminded him vaguely of being small, being a child.

Of running around bare-assed and pale and freckled on a day like that one in the little patch of cement yard behind the tenement building that was his first home, splashing in and out of a big tin tub of water that slowly warmed in the sunlight, a garbled rush of heavily accented English and old words his mother used and he didn’t quite identify yet as being something other than what everyone else spoke tumbling nearly breathlessly from his lips while his heart hammered in his chest. All before the landlord shouted and demanded Sarah bring him back inside, no one wanted to hear his noise. _Because I made_ so _much damned noise_ all _the time._

Of scorching-hot fevers that refused to go down and tentative dips in the tub and halved pills nicked from the hospital pharmacy when a doctor’s back was purposefully turned.

Of therapy that didn’t feel much like it was going to help whatever childlike inclination was causing all of his health issues because surely, _surely_ no young man could really be that ill. It must have been his head. Of bath tubs full of ice and shivering and water-logged shorts. Of crying and screaming, both coming out of him and not. Of begging not to be put in. Of fingers and lips turning blue. Of his Ma yanking him out of the tub and hauling him into a cab wrapped in a scratchy towel with his clothes balled up under her arm and his shoes flopping untied on his feet and promises that she’d never see him back at a place like that again with quacks like that and damn that doctor who ordered it right to Hell.

Steve opened his eyes under the water, loosening his grip on the edges of the tub, blinking against the initial siting of the water on his bare eyes. He watched his fingertips skim the surface of the water, creating ripples. His pulse throbbed in his temples. His chest began to burn, just the barest hint of discomfort. It was familiar. Disturbing in how familiar it felt, how it made nostalgia ping around in the depths of his belly.

Steve mused at how easy it would be to simply not surface. To let himself go to that throb and that burn.

A small bubble escaped his lips and raced toward the surface.

No one thought _the Rogers kid_ would make it past puberty.

No one thought he’d survive very far into the winter after his mother died.

No one thought he’d come home from war.

Maybe he shouldn’t have. Living a lie of omission wasn’t really living.

His gut clenched at the memory of waking in an Army hospital in Cheltenham with his torso purple and green after the Valkyrie, Peggy dozing upright in a chair beside his narrow bed. She’d get on if he hadn’t made it. She was strong. She’d get on now.

The sunlight hitting the wall from the window in the dining area started to turn orange. He pulled himself up out of the now-tepid water and gasped for breath, his chest constricting and his belly turning over with the rush of air. He drew his legs back into the tub, knees up against his chest, and watched the sun sink below the building on the opposite side of the street.

Steve nearly slipped and dashed his head after all, startled by urgent knocking at his door when he was stepping over the edge of the bathtub. He swore under his breath and regained his footing, calling out that he’d be there in just a moment.

“Oh, do hurry Steve, I’ve got wond’aful news for ya!”

He grabbed the towel from the rack, still damp from Peggy’s bath, and wrapped it around his waist.

“Mrs. Fisher, I’m not decent, can it wait?”

“Absolutely not!” Steve cracked the door open and peeked out. “Oh, c’mon. I’ve had six sons all grown, you’ve got nothin’ I haven’t seen.” His landlady laughed, loud and boisterous, and opened the door for her. She pushed inside, “Oh Lord! It’s hot in here! Come down and get a fan! Yer gonna make your poor lady friend melt into a pretty puddle before you’ve got a chance to prop’ly woo her!” Mrs. Fisher winked and perched herself on the arm of the couch.

Steve could feel a blush rise in his cheeks and the tips of his ears in spite of himself. He held the towel closed tightly, hyper-aware of the water rolling down over his shoulders and chest. He hunched forward slightly and leaned back against the kitchen counter. “You have news for me?”

“I really should have a phone line run up here for ya, oh if ya’d only heard it firsthand, I’d a loved t’see yer face.”

“Mrs. Fisher, y’kin see my face _now_ if y—“

“Oh! Right, right!” She laughed and smacked her thighs in amusement. “A young man called fer ya, John, is it? Said ya’d know ‘im. Said he showed yer paintin’s to his boss.” Steve dropped his shoulders back, just slightly in disbelief. “Boss _loved_ ‘em. Wants t’have a meetin’.”

“When? Where? Mrs. Fisher!”

She laughed again. “Ya gotta call yer friend back t’marrah morning, he’ll let ya know it all!” Steve took a long stride forward, ready to sweep the woman up in an embrace, then took a half step back before realizing the action. She snorted, “Save it for yer girl! And come get that fan b’fore ya go ta bed—no matter the hour.” She stood and patted his cheek as she walked by him, bidding him a good evening before letting herself out.

Steve sat down hard on the couch, staring in complete disbelief at the closed door.

If he’d decided not to come up for air…

A harsh sound escaped his mouth, barks of laughter tumbling out of him and leaving him with a raw throat and aching belly. He leaned back, the laughter quieting. He ran his hand back through his damp hair and let it fall down onto the cushion. He looked down, a smoother texture against his palm than the upholstery. He yanked at the cream-colored triangle of silk and smiled to himself when he freed Peggy’s drawers from between the cushions. He licked his lips, running his fingers over the lacy bottom edge of the leg.

He’d tell Peggy about the meeting with Coke as soon as she got back. She’d be pleased with that.

He put the thought of what might have happened had she come home to find him in the tub out of his mind. He brought the silk closer to his face and breathed in the subtle, lingering scent of her. Even if everything else was a lie, she was real.

He crushed the underwear in his hand, feeling as though he’d been caught eating sweets before supper, when Mrs. Fisher knocked on his door yet again. “Didn’t want ya to have’ta come all the way downstairs.” She handed over the tabletop fan with a grin and patted her belly. “Thought the exercise might be good. Now don’t ya ferget ta come down and call about that job tamarr’ah.”

“Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am.” She smirked down at the fabric clenched in his fist and bid him a good evening once again.

Steve made his way into the bedroom and unplugged the radio at his bedside to accommodate the second fan. Whether it was in his head or not, it seemed as though the room cooled by degrees almost instantly in the cross-breeze. Sweat and bathwater dried on his skin, making his flesh feel prickly. He closed his eyes, leaning into the flow of the air. When he opened them again, it was in darkness.

He rubbed the kinks from his neck, sleeping sitting up as he was not the most comfortable situation. He glanced at the clock, it was early enough that Peggy might yet still be trudging through her dinner with the Reserve folks. He stood and stretched, silky shorts then forgotten tumbling from his lap. He scooped them up off the floor and dropped them and his towel into the laundry basket beside the bedroom door.

***

Peggy was bored out of her mind. She shot Howard a glance and he rolled his eyes. At least she wasn’t suffering alone.

Dooley was dancing around the issue at hand, skirting past the matter of the strange obelisks that Peggy and the boys tracked down in the last days of the War. The rest of the Allies wanted to know what movement was being made on discovering their function beyond turning seemingly anyone who held one into a pile of ash.

The truth was that no progress was being made at all.

Most of the scientists in the SSR’s employ were too afraid to touch them. And quite rightfully so—they’d lost one of their own the first day one was brought into the laboratory. Howard was curious about the things, but not quite curious enough to risk life and limb for it. She had on good authority from Mr. Jarvis that Stark was trying to develop some kind of protective suit to study the obelisks with, thought development was going slowly.

“Alright,” the Royal officer scrubbed his hands over his face. He was clearly tired. Peggy couldn’t blame him. “We need to discuss the matter of Captain America.”

“Captain Rogers,” she corrected.

The man smiled weakly and nodded. “Yes, my apologies. Captain Rogers.”

“What about ‘im?”

“You’ve discharged him?”

“The Army did, yes.”

“Why?”

“He requested it, there w’s no reason t’deny it.”

The officer nodded and his eyes slid over to Peggy. She nodded discretely and he looked back to Dooley. “It’s my understanding that he seems to have…disappeared?”

“Nah, just livin’ civilian life—here in New York, actually.” Dooley looked smug. “He’s not really the SSR’s responsibility.”

Peggy felt the angry flush rise over the back of her neck. Howard’s eyes glittered like a mischievous child, like he could sense the fight about to happen and wanted to take bets on it. “I beg to differ, sir.”

“I tend to agree with Carter.”

“Miss Carter has a… _personal_ investment in Rogers. She tends t’disagree on most things concernin’im.”

“Agent Carter was the direct Allied liaison to the SSR, she oversaw the entire Rebirth Project and had a _personal_ hand in training every recruit. It would find it odd if she _didn’t_ have a personal investment in Rogers.” Dooley took a deep breath, winding up to get ready to retaliate. “Before you put your foot in your mouth, I will remind you that any private relationship between them is simply that. Private. And seeing as Rogers had been _discharged_ , there isn’t anything about it for you to concern yourself with.”

Howard let out a short burst of a giggle and then clamped his lips shut. “Sorry! Sorry, I think I’ve had too much.” He waved down a waiter and asked him to phone home, to have Jarvis come around and collect him. He’d barely finished his second glass of wine. Peggy knew a show when she saw one.

“I can assure you sir, any interest I have in Captain Rogers regarding his relationship with the SSR is purely professional.”

“I wouldn’t think any less from you, Carter.” The Royal officer cleared his throat and took a purposeful sip from his water glass. “You’ve sworn the man to secrecy.”

“Yes, we have.”

“For what reason?”

“To protect the Reserve! To protect Erskine’s work!”

“With all due respect, Chief Dooley, Steve—Captain Rogers is a human being. He’s not simply a piece of Erskine’s work! And the doctor, of all people, gave that fact utmost recognition. It was his humanity that made him such an ideal candidate for the serum.”

Dooley jabbed the air with a callused finger in her direction, “Yer outta line, Carter.”

***

Steve relished in the breeze the fan atop the dresser created blowing against his chest as he stood in front of it to root through the top drawer. He needed to get his laundry done. All that seemed to be on his side of the drawer were his long johns and cold-weather underclothes. He found a pair of threadbare Army-issued shorts shoved into the back of the drawer and backed away to pull them on.

He bent over, bringing his foot up to stick through the leg of the shorts and caught sight of himself in the mirror on the inside of the open closet door. He straightened up, frowning at his reflection.

He sucked his belly in, trying to make it as flat as he could. His posture was the same as it always was, but his shoulders were just too big. He turned to the side—if he kept his belly sucked in and tensed his thigh in just the right way, his hip bone looked like it jutted out just a little, the divot in the side of his buttock looked more like the way it used to, a lack of meat rather than the result of definition.

His toes were kind of still the same at least. Still long and kind of bony-looking.

Steve shook his head, exasperated at his own silliness, and stepped into his underwear.

Things were looking up, there was no reason to look back.

He turned back to the dresser drawer that he’d just pulled apart, taking things out to fold them properly and replace. He smiled down at the half of the drawer that Peggy had slowly taken over. There wasn’t much. A few pairs of pastel-colored cotton panties, a brassiere, a pair of black stockings balled together, a girdle she didn’t wear very often. It looked like she’d made a mess of her own side looking for the pair of thigh shields that weren’t there. He stacked the panties neatly, laid the bra out flat, and doubled the girdle over to make it fit.

He picked up the stockings, intending to fold them together carefully, and laughed when he remembered Peggy’s joke earlier about trying to put on a pair straight himself. He’d stick them on and show her. He could picture himself, sitting at his little dining table in that no-man’s land between the kitchen and the living room, his feet propped up on the edge to display his legs. He was banking on her being more amused then mortified. They’d have a good laugh. He’d ask how her dinner meeting went. They’d fall into bed. He’d get up and go to the early morning Mass and be home to make coffee before Peggy even noticed he was missing.

Steve perched himself on the edge of his steamer trunk and rolled one of the stockings up to stick his foot into. He pointed his toes, laughing to himself as he eased the stocking over his foot and up his calf—laughing harder when he noticed the reinforced heel didn’t quite make it to his heel and the top edge just about made it over his knee. It looked silly, but he couldn’t help but enjoy the way the silk felt against his skin. He slipped the other stocking on and admired his calves. He ran his fingers over them, the fabric warming to his touch, soft and buttery. He rubbed his legs together, luxuriating in the slip and slide of them against each other.

“Shit,” there was a snag on the outside of his left ankle. He hoped he hadn’t done it. He frowned down at his legs, knowing he should just take the stockings off and put them away. It was a foolish idea to start with. The last thing Peggy needed to come home to was Steve stretching out her hose. He ran his fingers under the top edge of one. They just felt so _nice._

He wondered about the girdle sitting in his top drawer. It was smooth to the touch with firm, stretchy panels. It was nice to touch—the way the fabric warmed up against Peggy’s skin, the way the weave of the fibers felt under his fingers. He even liked the faint lines it left on her body at the end of a long day and the soft sounds Peggy made when he rubbed at them. But was it actually comfortable?

His Ma had never really worn one. It wasn’t an expense that she felt necessary considering her slim frame, there wasn’t much on her to keep in shape. She tended to put the money she’d have spent on something like that into keeping her uniforms as crisply white as she possibly could or into new clothes for Steve.

Rebecca Barnes had become very private when she got to an age that she might have started wearing one—no more tumbling through the house with Steve and Bucky, no more getting underfoot around the neighborhood. She kept to herself and to her girlfriends, very much trying to be more of a lady even if her right hook was still a hell of a punch.

It never occurred to Steve to even ask. It was such a mundane part of Peggy’s wardrobe, something she put on most days she wore a skirt or dress, favoring long-line bras when she went with slacks. He found himself moving back to the dresser and opening the drawer.

There was no way he’d get himself into it. Peggy’s proportions were totally different. It would be too tight. He’d get it over his hips be he’d never get it to sit comfortably around his torso. He held the girdle up against his body, looking over himself in the mirror. He adjusted the top, setting it just under his pectorals and stretching the sides.

He shivered.

He’d look ridiculous.

It wouldn’t go on right.

But he wouldn’t really know for sure unless he tried.

Steve’s cheeks flushed with color and he stepped into girdle before he could change his mind.

He eased the garment up over his legs, mindful of the stockings, rolling and up over his thighs. The elastic stuck, the fabric askew and the legs of his shorts getting caught up in the roll. He closed his eyes and took a breath, shoving his embarrassment back down. There was no one else there to see him struggle.

Steve wiggled and shifted and shoved his hands down between his legs and the girdle, trying to disengage the legs of his shorts and hike the thing up. He settled for unrolling it completely and yanking it up and few inches at a time. He straightened it as best he could, pulling it up as high as it seemed it would go—his torso proving problematic as he shimmied with his elbows up high and his fingers tight on the top seam.

He looked at himself in the mirror with a critical eye. The girdle was a little loose around his hips and hips and rear—Peggy far more shapely than he was in that department. It sat comfortably close around the waist. He looked nearly waspishly small under the lines of the girdle, the slightly different colors of the fabric and elastic panels and the sweeping, curved seams that made Peggy look like she was shaped out of water instead of flesh. It made him look fuller in the bottom, especially with the way the faded olive legs of his shorts stuck out of the hem. He ran his finger under the top edge again and took a deep breath, noticing the way his flesh bulged and pulled as the fabric strained. It was just barely comfortable around the top—Peggy was solid, but he was broader.

Steve smoothed his hands up and down the front panel, fingers trembling as he felt the rises and valleys of his muscles under the slippery rayon. He turned to the side, sucking his belly in, his chest rising sharply. He straightened his spine, drawing himself up as tall as he could, and dropped his shoulders back. The compression of the girdle was oddly comforting—a swaddling or a firm hug. He thought fleetingly of the braces and support pieces he’d worn as a child to help with his crooked back and lopsided stride.

Focusing on the dip of his lower back and the nip of his waist and the swell of his behind—Steve _liked_ the way he looked—the way this body, _his_ body, could be shaped, could resist being shaped. His face and neck flushed with color and heat, though he wasn’t quite sure it was shame or embarrassment he was feeling.

He pointed his toes and straightened his leg, even hard and muscled it looked soft under the sheer black silk. Garter clips dangled around his thighs from the bottom of the girdle. They were too short—unless he loosened the strap and tried to make it stretch.

***

Howard laughed and slapped his stomach. “Oh my God, Jarvis, you should seen it!”

Mr. Jarvis had arrived quite promptly after he was called for. Mr. Stark asked their waiter to request he make himself comfortable, that the argument going on at the table was too good to walk out on. Jarvis had settled with a cup of coffee at the bar where he could see their table and usher Stark away if the need rose.

“Bloody hell man!” The Royal officer shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Are we really going to trudge through this muck again?”

“Yeah, I think we are! Why does my office have ta put up with keepin’ her busy just because’a who she’s in bed with?”

“Chief Dooley, I don’t think you understand how little anyone cares who Agent Carter _or_ Captain Rogers took to bed… or is taking to bed, for that matter. Their relationship never got in the way of either of their work.” He glanced toward Peggy. Howard was grinning like a fool. “In fact, I am of the opinion—and so is Colonel Phillips, I might add—that Project Rebirth would not have been successful without Agent Carter’s involvement, nor would Captain America and the Howling Commandos have been if they had not had the benefit of her guidance and support. I am also of the opinion that you are severely underutilizing her and her skills.” He looked very pointedly at Peggy. “And should she wish to transfer back over the pond, my office would be overjoyed to have her.”

Peggy couldn’t decide whether it was amusement or rage making her stomach feel the way it did. She nodded solemnly in response and waited for Dooley to blow.

But it didn’t come. He stood, held out his hand to shake, and announced the meeting over.

Peggy couldn’t even remember what they’d been meant to discuss all evening.

“That was absolute FUBAR, Howard, and you know I’ll be paying for it at the office on Monday. The least you could have done was not laugh.” He burst into hysterics once again. Peggy sat up straighter and smoothed her skirt over her knees. There was no use reasoning with him when he was in a state like that.

“Miss Carter, where shall I leave you? Uptown?”

Peggy chewed her bottom lip and averted her eyes from Jarvis’ gaze in the rear-view mirror. She was angry and upset and wanted to go back to the Griffith to eat leftover rhubarb pie with Angie until they were both ill instead of going back to Steve who seemed to be the root of all of her problems as of late. Again the question of her ability and competence had come down to who she was having sex with. It wasn’t a matter of being in a relationship, of having feelings for someone. It was a matter of who she was letting into her knickers.

Her cheeks grew warm. It wasn’t Steve’s fault. It wasn’t her fault either, for that matter. She silently scolded herself. Getting sick on pie with Angie wasn’t going to solve her problems and she told Steve she’d be back.

Peggy resolved to enjoy the rest of her night as she originally intended: in Steve’s arms, in his bed.

Everyone else be damned.

She cleared her throat and looked back toward the mirror, “Brooklyn, actually, Mr. Jarvis. If it’s not too much trouble of course. I can take the train if it is, if you’d just drop me at the station.”

“It’s no trouble at all.” Jarvis shot a look at Howard as he stifled another laugh. “If you’ll direct me I’ll be happy to drive.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jarvis.” They made their way downtown and across the Brooklyn Bridge and through the borough. “Would you mind dropping me here?”

“I think I’d prefer to leave you at your intended destination, Miss Carter.”

“Jarve, she’kin take care’a herself. Leave the lady where she wants.”

He frowned, “Yes, sir.” He pulled toward the curb and was out of the driver’s seat in a flash to open Peggy’s door. “Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

“I will, thank you.”

Howard poked his head out of the open window of the back seat. “Yeah Peg, enjoy that fondue!”

Peggy pretended she didn’t hear, smiling to herself when Jarvis hissed a scolding across the car once back inside.

She ducked into late-night market for a couple of Cokes and a pack of biscuits, sure Steve hadn’t bothered to feed himself and having not really touched much of her own dinner.

“Hello, Mrs. Fisher,” she called to the woman fanning herself and rocking on the first floor patio.

“Hey there!” She shaded her face with a cupped hand and squinted her eyes. “Oh! It’s you! I’m glad y’got back alright.” Peggy often found it funny, how strict Ms. Fry was in comparison to how liberal Mrs. Fisher seemed to be. “I sent another fan upstairs so y’don’t melt in bed tonight—or at least ya’ll get t’melt for a much better reason!” Peggy stifled a laugh. “Steve got some great news while y’were out, hun, I’m sure he’ll be excited t’tell ya.”

“Have a lovely night, Mrs. Fisher.”

“You too, now.”

Peggy felt her step much lighter when she walked around to the side of the building and made her way up the tall wooden staircase to the landing. She pushed the brick that hid the spare key aside with her toe and let herself into the apartment. Setting her groceries down on the counter she surveyed the darkened room; the only light coming from the open door of the workroom, the softness of it meaning Steve was probably in the bedroom beyond.

“Darling, I’ve had a hell of an evening. I think you need to undo all these buttons as quickly as you can.”

She could hear the hum of the fans in the quiet.

“Steve?”

There was a slow, deep intake of breath. A drawn-out gasp. A soft sound, contented.

“Darling?”

His arm was hugged tight around himself, fingers dug into his side. The other hand was pressed close to his groin, cupped around himself over a pair of well-worn shorts just sticking out from under what Peggy was quite certain was her girdle stretched around his broad body.

“What on Earth are you doing?”

His eyes flew open wide, cheeks flushed with color, mouth wet and open in an expression somewhere between horror and pleasure as he looked at her in the reflection in his mirror. His hand moved to a more defensive gesture, knees came together, shoulders curled forward, chest heaved out over the top of the girdle rapidly as he gasped in and out, belly stretched and rippled the shiny front panel.

“Peggy, _ohgodpeggyimsooorry_ —“ There his eyes fluttered closed and he bit down hard on his bottom lip. “I’m so sorry—I just—I put the stockin’s on—I’was just a joke—I— _Oh, God_ — _“_

Peggy took in the whole image. The trembling hands and legs. Tense muscles in his thighs and back. The damp spot just beside his hand. The bead of sweat rolling down from his hairline, over his temple, and down the hard line of his jaw.

He was wearing her stockings. She pressed her lips together to hold in a laugh. His left foot was raised, balanced almost delicately on the ball. She could see where the reinforced heel was stretched over the sole of his foot, the seam actually nearly perfectly straight up over his heel and the back of his calf.

He’d managed to make the garter clips reach, even if they were straining just a little. Peggy hadn’t thought the straps were actually that long.

“There’s a snag. Over your ankle.”

He turned and looked down at the offending damaged fiber. “Peg—I’m sorry, I’ll replace ‘em, I _swear_ , jus’—Just lemmie get ‘em off—I’m so sorry—“

“Steve,” she let herself smile. “It’s alright.”

“What?” He blanched, shocked.

“I’m teasing. I did that last week. I wore them to Angie’s show, they got snagged on the train—caught on another lady’s shoe buckle.” She was sure she’d told him. It had been quite the picture, the two of them trying to separate without completely ruining the stocking.

“Oh.” It was more relieved breath than actual verbalization.

Peggy looked over him once more, noticing the soft curves that her under-things had shaped him into. “You look lovely.”

“What? I—no—I’m… I’m not, I—“

“Darling, I’m not upset. You don’t need to defend yourself.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged, “I’m just not.” She took a tentative step forward. He recoiled, looking up at her through his lashes, caught between hopeful and afraid. “May I... may I touch you?”

“If…” He drew in a slow, deep breath. “If you want.” He leaned into her touch, her hand light on his cheek, and closed his eyes. “Peg—“

“Hush.” She prodded him gently, turning him back toward the mirror. “You like this?”

“No, I—“

“Steve.”

“Yes.”

She put her arm over his, lacing their fingers together at his side, hugging him close back to front. “What about it?”

“The way… the way it feels. Soft… smooth… firm…” Peggy rested her cheek against the outside of his bicep. She curled her toes inside her shoes, enjoying the warm feeling growing low in her belly and prickling at the back of her neck as she looked at him. “Peggy, do you… do you like it?”

She chewed her lip, considering her response carefully. “Very much, I think. You look… you look beautiful. I never imagined—“

“No, no. I mean, d’you like wearin’ this stuff? Does… does it feel good?”

She laughed. “Not particularly. At least in this weather. It’s not entirely uncomfortable but it can be rather a pain in the arse.”

Steve let out a rush of nervous laughter. His head and shoulders drooping forward like he was exhausted. “Oh.”

She reached forward with her other hand to cover his, stepping behind him, making him start to massage at his half-hard cock again. He croaked out her name and leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the mirror. Peggy left a kiss against his shoulder, a faint red smudge standing out against creamy skin and white garment, and gently pried his arm away from his torso. She placed her hand over his, palm flat against the closet door alongside the mirror.

“Steve, darling,” He shuddered, the movement running down his back and into his feet. “Look.”

He swallowed hard and lifted his head, eyes sweeping quickly over himself, lingering on the hard line of his cock under their hands against the crease of his thigh, before he looked up at Peggy. She rose up on her toes, peeking over his shoulder and pressing a kiss behind his ear. He swore, invoking the Lord’s name, and rubbed his body back into hers, almost cat-like.

“Give me your hand.” He complied, letting her place his other hand beside the mirror as well with white-knuckled purpose. Peggy had to drag her eyes away from the solid twitch in his shorts. “Just look.”

***

It felt like Peggy’s hands were everywhere at once. Warm. Moist. Probing at his sides. Stroking, squeezing. Hard nails raking over skin and fabric. Soft lips and wet tongue falling where they may. She made soft sounds behind him draping herself over him.

She worked her hand between the bottom of the girdle and the top of his shorts, reaching inside to stroke him. She stroked up, his foreskin rolling with her fingers up over his head, riding the edge of almost too hard. He lost focus, bending forward toward the mirror, as her arm circled around his waist to keep him close.

She let go, leaving his cock leaking and bobbing in the open air, head straining toward his belly.

He watched her fingers work over the garter clips. Undone, the stocking-tops wrinkled and began to fall.

Steve felt oddly cold when Peggy stepped away. She laughed, low and soft. “This isn’t exactly how I thought we’d spend the night.” He let out a rush of breath, a barking laugh of his own. She swatted his behind with the back of her hand. “Get these off.”

He stood still for a long minute, trying to make his hands move away from the door while the click of her heels against the floor moved further away. He listened to the sounds of the water in the bathroom turning on and off, the cabinet over the toilet opening and closing on a squeaky hinge he kept meaning to fix.

He knew what she was doing. They didn’t use the diaphragm often, it had proven effective so far but it took too much of the spontaneity out of their physical relationship. So it mostly stayed in the drugstore box, less than inconspicuously marked _marital hygiene_. They hadn’t found a doctor who would fit Peggy properly since there was no ring on her finger. She’d finally gone to a pharmacy out of her way and talked circles around the druggist until he was convinced she was simply careless and had left her ring on the kitchen counter that morning.

Steve strained his ears, listening to the quiet sounds Peggy made before the water ran again and her footsteps grew closer. He was leaning back against the mirror, covering himself awkwardly with his hands when she returned. Still in her purple dress, she smiled bashfully and dropped her panties into the laundry basket. She tucked a curl fallen from her up-do behind her ear. “I’m not sure what it says about me… that… that this is so…” Her cheeks colored. Steve thought he could see the gears turning in her head while she looked for the right word. “Attractive.”

“I—I can take it off. I never meant for…” He tried to think about anything but the way Peggy was looking at him. “It was just suppose’ta be a joke.”

The trouble was, he didn’t _want_ to take it off. And he didn’t want her to stop looking at him like that.

Peggy shook her head and stepped close and pulled his hands away. “Come to bed.”

He let her lead him across the small room to the foot of the bed. A tug at his wrists made him sit down on the trunk. He grimaced, the clips dangling off the back of the girdle digging into the backs of his thighs. He planted his gaze on Peggy’s belly, head bowed, as he shifted to move the clips. He couldn’t help the quiet moan that came out as he shifted, the pressure of the girdle on his waist and sides changing with the new position, and Peggy ran her fingers through his hair affectionately. He pulled her in close, pressing his face to her stomach and hugging her around the waist.

Her laugh vibrated against him, “Darling, are you alright?” He nodded. She kneaded his shoulders. “Darling, look at me.” She leaned back and cupped his jaw in her hands. Her thumbs rubbed hard circles just behind his ears. “Is this too much?” He shook his head. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yeah.”

She moved his hands, bringing them down over her hips and back up over her legs beneath her dress. She leaned down, pressed her lips to his temple, and ran the tip of her tongue over the shell of his ear. “Do you want me?” She breathed out, hot and humid against the side of his face when he ran his fingers between her legs.

“Yeah.” Peggy gathered up the hem of her dress and planted a knee beside him on the trunk. She lifted herself, filling his space, making him lean back while he held the backs of her thighs to steady her. Her garter clips were fastened to her stockings under the dress, neatly put back together after she’d taken her panties off. “You want me? You want me like this?” His eyes rolled back when she grasped him, rubbing the head of his cock back and forth through her slick curls.

“Oh, yes.”

She seated herself slowly and threw her arms around his neck. The temperature in the room seemed to rise, though Steve wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the heat between them even just sitting there.

“You gonna get undressed?” He raised a brow, his mouth widening into a lazy grin when she rose up and sank back down. She shook her head.

“I think I like this.” She fell into a rhythm, up and down, slow and smooth. “Being all dressed up while you’re not.”

It felt weird, talking so casually. Not that they never talked during sex—his favorite way was that casual, end of the day fuck, moving together lazily, sloppy kisses between snippets of chitchat. But this way…

“Can… can you touch me?” Peggy stopped moving, a confused look on her face. Steve peeled her arms away from his neck and eased himself back to lie down, his body half on the hard surface of the trunk, half on the softer bed. He took her hands and placed them on his stomach. “I want—“

***

Her eyebrows shot up, her mouth formed around an “Oh!” of understanding. Peggy ran her fingers along the sturdy seams to either side of Steve’s abdomen. Her body stilled otherwise, just sitting comfortably. Her fingernails zipped down hard over smooth rayon and trembling flesh. She traced patterns across the expanse of white fabric stretched tight over his body.

Steve tipped his head back, exposing the swath of blush-infused skin of his throat. His pulse throbbed and his eyes fell closed, his lashes thick and long and splayed obscenely over the planes of his cheeks. He opened his mouth and let out a high whine when she dragged her nails over his nipples.

“ _Fuck_ — _Jesusfuck_ — _Peg_ —“ His hands fluttered around nervously, hovering close to her hips and then his sides, fingertips barely grazing as they moved. He finally settled them above his head making himself look positively debauched.

“You like that?” He let out a strangled sound and Peggy jerked her hips, reminding him what the aim of their game was.

His legs tensed and relaxed. She could hear the faint whisper of silk on silk. Peggy turned to look over her shoulder and saw his foot rubbing slowly up and down over the opposite calf. She twisted her ankle around to rub her stockinged toes against his thighs. He shuddered bodily beneath her and croaked her name. She rucked up the hem of her dress to bring her legs closer to his, trapping his hips and thighs between her calves. His thighs tightened again, hard as stone beneath her. She leaned forward, her hands gliding up from Steve’s navel and over his chest, across his shoulders and along the track of his arms, fingers following the paths of the veins running from defined bicep to hand.

Peggy wrapped her fingers tight around his wrists. He looked up at her with glassy eyes.

She hoisted herself up, rocking forward on her knees until she feared the loss of him. “I did ask you a question, darling.” He blinked rapidly, coming back to himself, his gaze focusing sharply on her.

“Y’did?” He breath came out in a rush as she rocked back and forward again.

Peggy held back a laugh. “Most certainly.”

“What was it again?” Steve thrust his hips up, meeting her on the downswing. She made a sound of startled pleasure.

“I asked if you liked that. My nails.”

“I do.”

A smile curled the corners of her mouth, their conversation trailed off into the sound of smacking skin muffled beneath her dress. Steve’s hands curled over, his fingertips struggling to graze against her hands. He drove his hips up faster, Peggy gasped when she found herself lifted bodily, his knees rising behind her. Their noses bumped as she came forward. She dragged her lips across his and dipped them low beside his ear. “Hard.”

Peggy’s hands trembled as she gripped his wrists. His pulse thundered under her thumbs. The trunk rocked on its edge, banging against the wood floor in an irregular pattern while Steve used it for leverage.

Steve’s hips moved faster, bouncing her against him. “Peg-Peg-Peg—“ He curled his hands into tight fists, his face washing over with dark red blush and his teeth gritting. Peggy shook though her own orgasm with her face pressed against the curve of his neck. They trembled and panted as they came down, adrenaline driven laughter erupting between them. Peggy gasped as she crashed downward, their bodies jarred uncomfortably together. Steve’s feet slapped against the floor and the trunk banged loudly once more. “Geeze!”

Peggy pressed her lips to the pulse point on his throat. “And that is why one does not run in stocking feet.” Steve laughed soundlessly, his belly jiggling with it under her, and said he wasn’t running. “Close enough.” Peggy moaned and gingerly lifted herself off of him to curl against his side. His cocked _thwapped_ , slick and still almost firm, against the fabric and his belly. Steve closed his eyes and covered her hand with his where it rested against his ribs. “What’s your news?”

Steve’s eyebrows came together in confusion, eyelids scrunching and staying shut. “Huh?”

“Fisher, she said you had something quite exciting to tell me.”

“Oh—Coke wants to meet. I might be on the verge of telling _Timely_ to eat it.”

“Coke? Is that why you made me sit with that bottle for all those hours last month? You sent a painting over.”

Steve laughed and turned his face to plant his lips against her forehead. He mumbled something that sounded like _up fer air._ He seemed in far better spirits than when she left him, his boneless contentment tugging at the last tendrils of her frustration from dinner. “I think I wrecked yer stockin’.”

Peggy lifted her head to see Steve’s inclined foot, his toes poking through the ruined silk. “Oh well.” She settled back down once again and whispered. “We’ll have to get a pair just for you.”

Steve’s cheeks flushed with a weak blush and his cock twitched. A hot breeze poured in through the window and across Peggy's back. She grimaced, noticing for the first time how stuck with sweat her dress had become.

**Author's Note:**

> To request a prompt, feel free to drop by the [ask-box on tumblr.](http://onheil-ferguson.tumblr.com/ask) Anon requests will be considered, as well as requests for most pairings within reason.
> 
> The comic Steve is working on is purely my own invention, though obviously there _was_ a Captain America book in real life, originally published under the Timely name. The very first issue came out in 1941 and only cost ten cents. Gosh do I wish they were still that cheap. And of course, there was a Cap comic shown at the end of TFA, so it's within reason for the universe. Betty Carver having amnesia is a nod to a real story in which Peggy loses her memory after an explosion.
> 
> Here's a picture of a B-26 Marauder. They were flown by by the Royal Air Force and the US. The Women Airforce Service Pilots flew them too. Here's Elizabeth Gardner posing in her's, though my WASP is not her.
> 
> Stimson and Patterson were the Secretaries of War during and immediately after WWII under Roosevelt and Truman. Marshall was Roosevelt's principal military adviser and the Army Chief of Staff.
> 
> In regards to underthings: A waistlette is kind of like a long-line bra. The shields she refers to are thigh shields, they're like wide cotton garters that keep your skin from chafing, preferable to stockings in the summer. The girdle Steve eventually puts on isn't a full-body deal. It's like Spanx, only goes up right under the bust and has no boning.
> 
> I've talked about my thoughts on Steve's health ad nauseam, so I won't repeat things. Here I've got him going through hydrotherapy, or at least a very negligent form of it.
> 
> Steve wakes up after the Valkyrie at Nissen-Hut, an Army Station Hospital in England just outside of Cheltenham. It was operated by British and American forces.


End file.
